Penelope slumped forward onto the dressing table and Hugh rested against her back, still inside of her, both of their breathing labored.
He was afraid to move. Afraid of what he’d done.
She was his wife, for God’s sake.
The skin above her hips remained red where his fingers had dug into her. He’d treated her ruthlessly. It was possible she’d have bruises from his touch.
He reached around with one arm and held her in a protective embrace.
She’d been raised a lady. She’d made a ghastly mistake, one which could have ruined her life and the lives of her children. He’d just treated her like a common whore.
For all the wrongs she’d done to him, she did not deserve his depravity.
“Have I hurt you, Pen? God, I’m a brute.” The words tore from him.
She did not answer. This was not the marriage he had wanted. This was not anything he’d ever planned for in his life.
He slid out of her, did up his falls, and located her dressing gown on the end of the bed. Her hands remained on the dressing table, her face turned away in… shame?
Feeling an overwhelming combination of tenderness and self-loathing, Hugh draped the gown around her and lifted her into his arms. When he did so, she buried her head against his shoulder until he settled her on the bed.
As he pulled the coverlet up and over her, she finally met his eyes.
He could not see the blue flecks at all. They were a deep forest-like green. It dawned on him that the blue lights in her eyes appeared brighter when she was animated.
“You think me a whore,” she said finally. “Because I find pleasure in this; because you believe I have done so indiscriminately.”
Hugh’s heart skipped a beat. He had a choice to make. One that might set the tone for the rest of his marriage.
He could continue hating her, blaming her. Or he could forgive.
“It was a mistake. You should not have to pay for it forever.”
“But you did not make the mistake and I’ve made it so that you, also, will pay. You have already paid. You have lost your freedom. I had thought after last night that you might come to forgive me someday. I thought that perhaps you already had.” As she spoke, a few of those blue flecks began to appear. “You are still very angry with me. And that is not all. You have just recently lost your mother and are suddenly being pressed at from all sides with responsibilities you have put off for a very long time. You are angry with yourself.”
Leave it to Penelope.
But there was no anger inside of him right now. His body, mind, and spirit were engulfed in a tidal wave of weariness.
And then Penelope did something completely unexpected.
She pulled back the cover and patted the mattress beside her. “Come back to bed, Hugh. There is no work to be done today and neither of us slept a great deal last night.”
He dropped into a chair and tugged off his boots. Not bothering to remove any of his other clothing, he climbed into the bed. Penelope scooted over so that he had plenty of room. It was she who pulled up the covers this time.
* * *
Penelope lay quietly on her side and watched Hugh. His breathing was steady, and his chest rose and fell evenly. She noticed tiny wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. He’d laughed a great deal in his life but not lately.
He was changing.
He’d always been considered the easygoing one, the fun one, the bachelor who would never be captured. She’d known this because, being Penelope Crone, the men her age had at times welcomed her into their discussions regarding business and politics. They’d allowed her on more than one occasion to enter into the inner sanctum that was usually reserved only for gentlemen. She’d come to know many of them in ways that their wives, daughters, and mothers never would.
But Hugh was not merely the rake, the playboy. He’d been a dedicated son and older brother. He’d honored his responsibilities in Parliament and been loyal to the people who were lucky enough to count themselves among his friends.
Had she merely chosen him because he’d been in the right place at the right time? Or, the wrong place at the wrong time, depending upon how one wished to look at it? She did not think she would have done what she did with any other man.
Except for, perhaps, Rome. But Rome would never have allowed himself to drink to such an excess. Rome, it was known, could be something of a killjoy.
